An irregular, irreverent, post-modern account of the surreal, the ordinary, and the bizarre happenings on and around the Felia lavender farm in Crete

Tuesday, November 28, 2006


And that, pals, is it. That was all there was in the file the boss had handed me - what? - 5 minutes previously. The lot. Three crappy sheets. Bugger all basically. Now I'm used to starting without very much but that seemed to me to be taking the piss. And I said so. For all the bloody good it did me. Like the man said "I can't give you what I don't have now can I? That's all we've got! You're gonna have to make something out of it as best you can. First report is due Friday. 11 hundred hours. Go on get to it." And that was that - I was dismissed. I'd known him long enough to know there was no point arguing. He wasn't going to tell me why we'd picked this one up or even what exactly he wanted. I was, to use a company euphemism "to use my initiative". Thanks Buster. Thanks a bunch.

I dropped the file into the shredder as I got to the door. And it jammed. The boss looked up at the grinding noise - "For Christ's sake Charlie - how many times? - don't put the bloody folder in too - they cost good money - oh get the fuck out out and send the beardy guy in". I was trying to get the machine into reverse, pushing buttons and pulling levers, so as it would disgorge the folder but all it did was make some more grinding noises. "Leave it alone for the love of God and get out - go on sod off and do your job - it's what we pay you for - not as a bloody office machine mechanic - - - Friday remember - 11 o'clock - don't miss it - don't even think about it". "Well done Charlie, " I said to myself "bramah, you really pissed him off royally - that'll be sure to keep him off your back".

I nodded George in as I went through the outer-office - "He wants you - seems the shredder jammed again ... ". George was picking coleslaw out of his beard, it was about ten and time for his mid-morning munchies - greedy gutted git - "Tell me you didn't Charlie." I shrugged and gave him the fat bottom lip. "Oh you bastard ... that'll take me all afternoon - everything gets screwed up when you do that". He reached into his drawer and pulled out a little tool roll. I moved on - shrugging still. "Hold on ... hold on ... he caught me and passed a piece of paper rolled up in a tenner. "Put this on for me will you? Come on ... its the least you can do ... it's a winner ... Hedgehunter, in the Gold Cup ... you wanna get some on yourself ... take the price off the board - he'll shorten close to off".

I pocketed the betting slip and the cash and winked at him. "OK - you want it on at William Hills or ..." "No no Hills'll be fine ... wouldn't want to put you out even as I should ... on the nose Chas - and pay the tax will you?" "OK George - will do". Would I buggery. It was a loser no matter what he thought. What did fat George know? Outside of shredders and copiers - bugger all that's what. I slid out of the building and sloped off round the corner to Sultan's cafe. A big fried breakfast would go down a treat about now and it was about time to get down to the new project. Bugger Poirot and his grey cells. Gut instinct works for me and what better to feed the gut than a big boy brekkie? And George's tenner would cover that nicely. I slung his slip in the bin on the lamp post and crumpled the tenner in my pocket.


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